


Tease

by rewmariewrites



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Bisexual Roy Mustang, Child Abandonment, Children, Domestic Roy/Ed, Edward Elric Can Sing, Edward Elric Is A Little Shit, Edward Elric Swears, Edward is Really Hot, Everyone Is Gay, Guns are Dicks, Kid Fic, Long Hair, Long-Haired Edward Elric, M/M, Oblivious!Edward Elric, Oblivious!Roy Mustang, Post-Canon, Riza Hawkeye is Hot, Roy Mustang has a Hair Thing, Roy Mustang has a Type, Roy is SufferingTM, Sharing Clothes, Sleeping is Sexy, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Wet Clothing, Wet Clothing Kink, edward briefly acquires a child, everyone got promotions, i dont write sex so all of these 'kinks' are just Edward being Hot in different scenarios, implied Alphonse/Winry, let Ed say fuck, minor Alphonse Elric, minor gun kink, minor hair kink, tags will be updated as the chapters are uploaded, well kid chapter, well more like post-what-i-can-remember-of-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewmariewrites/pseuds/rewmariewrites
Summary: “Well, the General has always had a thing for blondes,” Breda points out from the part of the room Roy is decidedly not looking at anymore, and Roy twitches before he’s able to physically restrain himself from repeatedly headbutting the nearest available surface.“Aren’t Generals supposed to be respected by their teams?” Roy mutters, just barely loud enough for his team to hear. “Aren’t subordinates supposed to gratefully defer to their commanding officers? At the very least, they aren’t supposed to personally attack their superiors with incriminating details about their personal lives.”





	1. Military Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [all you're giving me is friction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/522549) by [drunktuesdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/drunktuesdays). 



> i want to credit the idea for this heavily to drunktuesdays and their fic 'all you're giving me is friction' - I kinda took the general idea and ran with it in a Fullmetal Alchemist direction, but that's the source material right there. It's awesome. It's one of my favourites. You should all go read it.

 

It was with no small amount of surprise that, three days after the reopening of Amestrian military offices, four years after the veritable end of the world, Roy finds Edward Elric in front of his desk proclaiming that _he’s here to accept Roy’s offer of employment,_ and that _he wouldn’t have been so late if Roy had just sent him a damn telegram,_ and _what’s with that look on his face, what, does Ed have something stuck in his teeth?_

It’s not like Roy didn’t want Edward to take him up on his offer, but - the job Roy offered was, in all honesty, more of an overture towards money in exchange for vague services. An offer which Roy was entirely sure Edward would laugh at, one he wasn’t in the the thick of a post-battle adrenaline rush. It was an offer Roy made because he wanted Edward to be okay, especially after Al showed up looking so frail and sickly and _happy._

Roy is a man who keeps his word, though, and if Edward wants this job, he can have it. 

(Edward could ask for Roy’s life and he would give it without hesitation, but that’s not the point here.)

The  _ point _ is, Roy is entirely unprepared for the sight of a 20-year-old Edward Elric standing in front of his desk with one hip cocked and one eyebrow arched, asking for a job he never showed any indication of wanting in the first place.

(Roy is also entirely unprepared for how  _ attractive _ Edward is. The years spent away look good on him in a way that is maybe not entirely unexpected, but still hits Roy like a kick to the sternum. It might,  _ maybe,  _ take Roy the better part of an entire minute to shift his world-view to include an Edward that looks like  _ that,  _ to re-configure his self-control to prevent himself from staring dreamily at Ed’s elbow-length, spun gold hair, or his amber eyes, or the way his automail fingers are nervously, delicately, tracing the length of his flesh arm from wrist-bone to elbow -

See? Roy stopped himself. This will be fine. Everything will be fine.)

“You gonna give me a uniform or not, Bastard?” Edward asks, sardonic smirk curling his mouth up at one corner. He’s  _ still _ stroking his arm, metal fingers curling around his wrist and giving a little twist before trailing back up to his elbow and back down and - and - it’s  _ obscene _ is what it is.

With a snap, Roy shuts the folder on his desk and places his pen down beside it. He doesn’t look at Ed when he waves a hand and says, “Colonel Hawkeye will have you outfitted.” 

That he feels ferociously proud of himself for how nonchalant he sounds is probably sad, but - well. Roy left his pride on Riza’s doorstep many moons ago, and he knows by now to take his wins where he can get them.

~

In retrospect, getting Edward outfitted in military blues was… an oversight.

“Wow, really Boss? Ed’s back?” Havoc asks, tipping himself until he’s balanced on the back wheels of his wheelchair. He likes to challenge himself to do it with no hands - it ended in a number of undignified sprawls in the beginning, but he’s been pulling it off with impressive consistency as of late.

“It seems that way, yes,” Roy says, feigning casual indifference. He’s quite good at it, he’s told, but apparently his staff is immune to his facades, because Breda scoffs in the corner, and Havoc outright  _ laughs,  _ even while still holding himself carefully balanced in the air.

“Ed’s what, twenty now? It’s hard to imagine him as anything but a kid, even if he never really acted like one,” Fuery muses from his corner of the room.

“Is he still short?” Falman asks from where he is perched on the corner of Breda’s desk. 

Does anyone on his staff ever work when Hawkeye isn’t present to supervise their productivity?

Not that he’s one to talk. He is, after all, out here with his staff instead of in his office dealing with the veritable  _ mounds _ of paperwork that have become his responsibility since the coup-turned-end-of-the-world, when he decided to create an electoral government from scratch to ensure military monarchies would become a myth of Xerxian proportions.

(Considering his experiences with Edward and Alphonse, maybe Xerxes is a bad example. Those myths turned out to be entirely too true for Roy’s tastes.)

The point is, the reason he’s out here rather than in his reasonably comfortable office is definitely because he’s avoiding paperwork, and definitely not because he’s waiting to see what Edward looks like in military dress uniform.

(Edward has never worn blue in Roy’s presence. It’s entirely likely that Edward has never worn blue at all,  _ ever, _ even before he knew what the military was, or when the association with the military’s authority would have been beneficial to his more humanitarian efforts. That refusal to conform to the Amestrian status-quo is a large part of the reason he was so effective as the People's Alchemist, and that awful red jacket has since become a symbol of something much larger. As much as Roy jokes that he wishes he would have stayed blind, if only to avoid regularly laying eyes on that monstrosity of a crimson pea-coat, Edward and that jacket are so wrapped up in each other that, even all these years later, any slip of red on the street has the tight line of Roy’s shoulders relaxing instinctually. 

So, despite its  _ many _ faults, that red jacket is a comforting reminder of Edward’s frustratingly tenacious nature, and seeing that awful crimson eyesore in his office was more of a relief than Roy will ever admit out loud. It was a reminder that Edward would never change, not really, even if he had grown up. And he  _ had  _ grown up. Wherever he had been before he came back to Amestris was good for him (Xing, Roy thinks he remembers Winry saying). Edward looks confident, comfortable in himself, and though that red jacket is the same as it’s always been, the shoulders that wear it are broader, the arms that fill it are larger, the jaw above it is sharper -)

“Boss?” Havoc prompts, a  _ glint _ in his eyes. It’s… it’s  _ insubordination,  _ is what it is.

“I… don’t recall,” is all Roy has for an answer, because for all he apparently paid attention to the ways in which Edward changed, Roy never actually noticed whether he grew  _ taller. _

“Uh  _ huh,”  _ is Havoc’s opinion on that, and Roy has to turn his head towards the window to hide how the tips of his ears go red. By the way Havoc snickers behind him, his deflection fails spectacularly, but it’s the effort that counts.

“Well, the General has always had a thing for blondes,” Breda points out from the part of the room Roy is decidedly not looking at anymore, and Roy twitches before he’s able to physically restrain himself from repeatedly headbutting the nearest available surface. 

“Aren’t Generals supposed to be respected by their teams?” Roy mutters, just barely loud enough for his team to hear. “Aren’t subordinates supposed to gratefully defer to their commanding officers? At the very least, they aren’t supposed to  _ personally attack _ their superiors with  _ incriminating _ details about their personal lives.” 

“What, we’re supposed to respect you now? Shit, maybe I should quit while I’m ahead,” comes Edward’s voice from the doorway, and Roy can’t help the way his head snaps around to look towards his voice.

Even so, it’s Riza that Roy sees first, standing at attention. It is significantly more difficult than it should be to keep his eyes on her as she speaks, rather than letting his eyes skim over her in an attempt to find Edward. “Major Elric has been outfitted with military blues, sir, and as of this moment he is complying with all of the appropriate dress codes of his rank.” 

What she’s not saying is that she most likely had to threaten Edward with bodily harm to get him into this strict uniform, and any uniform-related insubordination that happens in the future is neither her responsibility nor her fault. 

The faint blush across her nose and high on her cheeks says something  _ far _ different, though, and it’s not until Roy actually gives in and looks at Edward that he understands.

Edward’s hair - still braided, even now - has been twisted into a tidy bun at the back of his head, leaving his impressive jawline and cheekbones on display in a way that is… unprecedented. 

The uniform itself is just as striking as the hairstyle, in a way that leaves Roy more or less desolate. It was a lamentable, luckless truth that Edward was attractive even in that heinous red eyesore, and Roy knew -  _ he knew  _ \- that military blues would only make his situation more difficult. Denial is such a sweet mistress, though, and she was so sure that Roy would be fine if he  _ just didn’t think about it. _

(Military uniforms create such a flattering aesthetic that even the dustiest blocks of coal have become diamonds by donning the blues. And Edward… he was already well on his way to becoming a diamond.)

Roy is suddenly overcome with the urge to find the on-call tailor and thank them for their service  _ (or to weep at their feet, whichever happens first). _ They are an essential member of the military mechanism, after all, and they should be appreciated more. With money, or perhaps medals. Many, many medals. One such medal would be dedicated to the way the uniform sits across Edward’s shoulders and cinches in at his waist, another to the way the pants hug his thighs and crease gently at the ankle. 

Edward isn’t much taller than Riza, even all these years later, but his presence fills the room in a way that is borderline suffocating; his smirk is all rebellion even as he stands at perfect attention, chin raised just so, big gloved hands folded neatly in front of him.

(Roy wants to compare Edward to Hohenheim, wants to find similarities in the breadth of their shoulders and the stubborn tilt of their jaws, but it seems a shame to do so when Hohenheim was such a… complicated figure in Edward’s life. Maybe he could find Trisha in the tilt of Edward’s eyes, in the slope of his cheekbones, in his delicate wrists, but, well. Neither comparison would be welcome, and they pale in the face of what Edward has become.)

(Dramatically - and though Roy is creative enough to concoct a situation like this - he will make a fortune selling dime-store romance novels if this whole military thing doesn’t pan out - he emphatically  _ did not make this up: _

The sun breaks through the clouds outside just as Edward meets Roy’s eyes, and the shaft of sunlight that comes through the window makes Edward’s entire  _ being _ light up like liquid gold. Without the masses of hair dangling in Edward’s face, his eyes are somehow more striking than they usually are. Maybe it’s because Edward has been gone for so long, but when Roy finally meets Edward’s eyes it feels like he’s been laid bare, or maybe it feels like coming home. Roy's soul is suddenly stretched and vulnerable, ready to be systematically studied at Edward’s leisure. Edward’s eyes, his hair, his  _ skin,  _ he looks like he’s glowing from within and it’s  _ beautiful _ \- 

Roy swallows hard and keeps his face carefully neutral.)

“Holy shit,” Fuery breathes, hands stilling on whatever dials he’s constantly fiddling with.

Havoc’s front wheels finally meet the ground again with a sharp  _ thump _ against the carpet, and lets loose a barely-audible wheezing sound.

Falman is, suddenly, standing very straight near Breda’s desk, and Breda - he could be made of stone for how still he is sitting.

Riza seems to notice the stunned nature of her team and exhales sharply out her nose, like she wasn’t also affected by Edward’s unconscious grace. She is unequivocally better than the rest of them, though, in every way, so it stands to reason that she would be able to regain her ironclad composure much more quickly than they could. “Edward, if you will follow me, I will show you to your desk.”

“What the  _ fuck.”  _ Havoc whispers as soon as Riza and Edward have left the room, incredulous.

“I know,” Roy answers quietly, already utterly defeated.


	2. The Gun is a Metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I am a pathetic man, Roy thinks. A weak man. All it takes is one mouth-watering cascade of hair, and I fold like a lousy pair of cards.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAH sorry guys I forgot it was Thursday. Whoops? It's 2:04AM where I live, but here's your update anyways. I hope you enjoy it! <3

Riza has decided that, as Roy’s newly appointed bodyguard, Edward needs to learn how to use a gun. 

It takes two weeks for her to convince Edward that it’s a necessary precaution; though Edward is still an alchemist - proficient in alkahestry as well as what’s left of Amestrian alchemy - Amestris is still alchemically unstable enough that even Edward’s previously unparalleled control over alchemy is admissably untrustworthy. Though he snarks and swears and even outright refuses, Riza’s stoic disapproval eventually wins out, and Edward is forced to begin weaponry lessons.

Past-Roy had tried to circumvent the danger that was Edward fondling a gun. Past-Roy had considered the hazards and emotional upheaval that particular activity would cause him, and tried his  _ very  _ best to make sure that if it had to happen, it would happen as far away from him as possible.

It just so happens that Roy's best isn't quite as good as it used to be anymore, because he is ruthlessly outplayed by a smirking, unrepentant,  _ unaware _ Edward Elric in all but five seconds.

“What, don’t you wanna be safe?” Edward taunted, sitting heavily on the edge of Roy’s desk, sending politically-important papers fluttering about their ankles.

“That is indeed the goal,” Roy sighed. Sometimes  _ safe _ means  _ safe from yourself,  _ and ill-advised erotic daydreams featuring his subordinate and phallic objects is  _ very high _ on the list of things that Roy needs to save himself from.

“Then why do you insist on puttin’ yourself in danger by sendin’ your only bodyguard away for hours every day? That's pretty fuckin’ dumb, even for you.” Edward levelled an unimpressed look in Roy’s direction, his un-gloved flesh hand pushing some of that gorgeous blonde hair behind his ear. The innocuous motion set off an unfortunate domino effect; a good portion of Edward’s hair chose that moment to escape it’s braid, falling forward to brush Edward’s chin, cheekbones, eyelashes -

Roy takes absolutely no responsibility for the way his intestines had twisted, and for the way his mouth had opened and said, without his permission, “Perhaps you have a point.”

(What was it he was just saying about safety and lists? He can't remember. It can’t have been that important, surely.)

“Of course I do,” Edward declared, dragging the tie out of his hair and tipping his head back to run his flesh fingers through the length of it. Roy's mouth went dry as Edward gave his head a small shake, the tips of his hair brushing tantalizingly near Roy's fingertips before Edward gathered it all in a high, sloppy, one-handed bun. 

“What?” he snapped, understandably confused by the way Roy’s face was twitching madly, “My metal hand pulls at my hair, the braid was coming out, and Al’s not here to help me re-do it. If it’s against dress codes, fuck if I care. Deal with it. It's not like I'm gonna let  _ you _ touch it, you'd probably set it on fire by fuckin’ accident or somethin’.”

Roy swallowed. Then swallowed again. And once more for good measure. “I am not worried about your hair, or about touching it,” he managed, and it was barely even a lie. “You may learn about your guns in my office so long as your gun has no bullets while you are learning to handle it. While I trust Colonel Hawkeye's judgement, I would still rather have her  _ personally _ hand me a notarized approval of your firearm capabilities before you regularly carry loaded weapons in my presence.”

Edward had barely even let Roy finish before he was flashing a blinding grin and bouncing towards the door, saying something almost incomprehensible about finding Riza and  _ probably _ not shooting Roy on purpose.

_ (I am a pathetic man, _ Roy thinks.  _ A weak man. All it takes is one mouth-watering cascade of hair, and I fold like a lousy pair of cards.) _

This entire scenario would be a severely less substantial problem if Roy didn’t have to spend  _ so much time _ trapped in his office with two of the most jaw-droppingly beautiful people he has ever had the misfortune of befriending. His paperwork is all but a literal chain, keeping him at his desk (which has a  _ perfect _ view of Edward’s desk) at almost all hours of the day. 

It's far too much like prison for Roy's delicate sensibilities. Roy is allowed to sleep and to spend much-dreaded hours locked away in boardrooms with politicians, but otherwise he is shuffled to and from his desk like a prisoner who marches to and from their scant sanctioned hours outdoors.

Considering the mind-numbing nature of his job now that the political intrigue has faded into political placation, the distraction that Edward and Riza supply  _ should _ be welcome. 

(And it is, to a degree: they are the only thing keeping him from lighting his piles of paperwork on fire, if only by virtue of the sheer magnitude of their disapproval were they to catch him in the act.)

The thing is, well… they’re  _ too _ distracting. 

Before, Roy’s inability to get his work done was a carefully concocted act. He would hide his work ethic behind carefully planned phone calls with his adopted siblings, signing papers under the cover of writing ‘love notes’, leaving early and stashing extra work inside his coat or gloves or briefcase. It was  _ amazing _ how Roy Mustang seemed to get everything done by doing nothing at all. Roy Mustang was an enigma, a master, a  _ legend. _

That illusion is well and truly broken now, and it’s all Edward and Riza’s fault.

All day, every day, they sit at Edward’s desk. Their blonde heads are bent together as they pore over manuals and diagrams, murmur in low tones, laugh brightly, argue passionately about the merits of long-distance versus short-range competencies. Roy spends  _ all day, every day _ staring at the way they sparkle in the sunlight, and until one of them shoots him a scathing glare over the other one’s head, he invariably forgets that he is a functioning, capable human being.

And of course -  _ of course  _ \- it doesn't help that his staff keeps making excuses to come and linger in his office, staring at Riza and Edward in what they think is a casual manner. To their credit, Roy is fairly certain Riza and Edward haven’t noticed; they are always otherwise occupied, conversing like twins and speaking in half-sentences and shorthand which manages to confuse even Roy. 

Even Amestris’ weather has conspired against Roy, the sun constantly shining through the one window in his office to bathe Riza and Edward in light that makes them look like angels, or stars fallen to the earth.

(If anyone asked him about it, he would deny any and all claims, eyewitness and otherwise, that on April 3rd he came into the office  _ well  _ before the rest of his staff to rearrange his office in order to achieve that particular heavenly effect. 

_It wasn’t him,_ he would say, _the cleaning crew came through in the night and shifted everything four feet to the_ _right_ , or maybe, _the room was inefficiently organized, before,_ or perhaps, _it was giving me a bad ‘vibe’.)_

Roy firmly decides that everyone, everywhere, is  _ actively plotting against him _ when Riza announces that Edward is ready to actually handle the guns. In Roy's office. Because somehow the shooting range is entirely booked until Thursday, and Edward will vibrate out of his skin if he's not actively learning something during every single waking moment. Riza proposes to teach Edward about cleaning, assembling, and disassembling the gun, and Roy is cannot think of a better argument than _ I dont want you to, _ so he is forced to give in.

For clarity's sake: Roy signed off on this. Technically, he reviewed a lesson plan and placed his seal of approval on it. In theory, he was fully prepared for what was coming. 

Which means, of course, that he is almost entirely  _ unprepared _ to walk into his office the next day to find Riza teaching Edward how to best fondle his handgun. 

(That’s the only word to describe what is happening.  _ Fondle.) _

The mid-morning light has made Roy’s office just a little too warm, and in a rare breach of protocol both Riza and Edward have shed their jackets, unbuttoned their collars, and rolled their sleeves up to their elbows. Riza’s hair is lit up white-gold in the bright morning light, Edward’s is lit up yellow-gold, and they’re both slightly flushed from the heat of the room. Riza’s own gun lays on Edward’s desk, assembled yet abandoned, and she is learning across the desk’s length to place her hands on Edward’s, moving them along the length of the barrel as she shows him the best way to clean his gun. Their heads are bent together and Riza is murmuring instructions and advice in Edward’s ear as she stretches their fingers around the gun, then slides the cleaning brush slowly in and out of the barrel. 

If Roy could think past the way he’s choking on his own tongue, he might recognize the way Riza is focusing a little too intently on the way Edward is biting his lip in concentration. Fortunately for Riza, Roy's newfound inability to breathe - combined with the way all the blood in his body is suddenly flowing  _ distinctly _ south - has made any higher brain function  _ impossible. _

That would be embarrassing enough on its own  _ (mortifying _ , actually) but the ruckus he causes brings the rest of his staff running. 

(He takes immense pleasure in the hearing them all collide with each other in the doorway, and in the desperate whimper that escapes one - or all - of them when they lay eyes on Riza and Edward. Riza and Edward don’t even look up from their pornographic lesson in gun cleanliness, engrossed as they are.)

“Ed, did you know that I have a really great apartment? I have a tub. A jacuzzi tub. It’s really big,” Falman says, somewhat desperately and very suddenly.

“Wow, that’s pretty cool. You’ve really upgraded since the last time I was in town,” is Edward’s response. He doesn’t look up from his gun, but that hardly matters - the others are already off, jockeying for Edward’s attention.

“I just got a new car - we could go for a ride sometime? Just the two of us?” Havoc asks, shoving none-too-gently at Falman.

“I have tickets to a concert that’s been sold out for  _ months,”  _ Fuery pipes up, somewhere in the back of the group.

“My apartment is soundproof. For reasons. Really, really  _ good _ reasons.,” Breda is saying as Roy reaches his desk, and Falman and Havoc are glaring dangerously while Fuery just stares forlornly at Riza and Edward. 

Roy narrows his eyes as he sits in his chair, very slowly. “Lieutenants, do you not have somewhere you need to be? Your own desks, perhaps?”

Riza chooses that moment to return her attentions to her own gun, rubbing it down with a cloth doused in gun oil, strokes long and sure as she leans close to Edward to murmur something that makes him laugh loud, throwing his head back, showing off the long line of his throat.

“Nope, don’t think so Boss, we're fine here,” Havoc answers immediately, not even pretending to look at Roy. Falman has the presence of mind to glance over at Roy nervously, but none of the others even twitch. 

Riza drizzles gun oil on another cloth and hands it to Edward, who takes it with a smile and immediately starts gently rubbing the length of the barrel. Following Riza’s patient direction, his thumb curls around the underside, tracing the ridge he finds there, making the metal gleam in that  _ damned  _ morning light. Riza smiles at Edward as she handles her own gun - no more than a tilt of the corners of her mouth, but a smile all the same - and in tandem they grasp and pull and  _ pump _ -

All the air seems to go out of the room at once, leaving all four of Roy’s Lieutenants shifting uncomfortably and looking entirely desolate. One by one they slink out of the room - even Havoc’s  _ wheels  _ squeak sadly - and Roy has to stifle an entirely too smug smirk as they leave. 

“Amateurs,” he murmurs to himself, conveniently ignoring the way that, only ten minutes earlier, his tongue had glued itself to the top of his mouth 

“What’s that, sir?”Riza asks, finally noticing the bereft atmosphere of the newly empty room. Edward’s eyes rise as well, and Roy swallows dryly. It pains him, but Breda was correct. Roy  _ does _ have a type, and looking at Riza and Edward together, with the same guarded confusion on their faces, makes it painfully obvious. 

Ed looks around for a moment, eyebrows furrowing cutely  _ (cutely, what has Roy become). _ “Weren’t Falman, Fuery, Havoc, and Breda just in here? Did you scare them off, Bastard?”

“Me? What about my innocent visage makes you think I’m capable of such a thing?” Roy hedges, making himself look Important and Busy with the paperwork that litters his desk.

Ed gives him a disbelieving look, but doesn’t push the issue, choosing instead to go back to his tantalizing treatment of the gun.

Roy, for all his posturing, is unsure whether he should be commending himself for his restraint, or writing himself (and his team) up for harassment. Probably the latter.  _ Definitely _ the latter. 

Then again, as he looks at the two most beautiful people he’s ever seen glowing in the light of the beautiful day outside, he can’t really bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me at rewmariewrites.tumblr.com!  
> check my #progresscheck tag for updates on my WIPS, of which there are... so many. so, so many.


	3. Wet 'n' Weary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy’s self control is being tested.
> 
> Is it Riza and Edward working in tandem, perhaps, to ensure that he goes grey at the tender age of thirty-six? Or maybe it’s the Truth and the Gate, enacting their vengeance because Roy found a way to restore his eyesight?
> 
> But, no, those are entirely unlikely scenarios. Much more likely is the idea that Roy’s luck is just this bad.
> 
> Honestly though - he’s fine. He’s fine. He’s the finest man to have ever been… fine. He’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter I had the most trouble writing (it went through so many revisions. so many. and I'm still not entirely happy.), so I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Also - I just want to say THANK YOU SO MUCH for the love that you guys have been showing me for the last couple of chapters. I don't tend to respond to comments, but I read every single one of them, and they fill me with joy unparalleled. You guys are great. I'm seriously astounded. I love you all. <3

Roy’s self control is being tested. 

Is it Riza and Edward working in tandem, perhaps, to ensure that he goes grey at the tender age of thirty-six? Or maybe it’s the Truth and the Gate, enacting their vengeance because Roy found a way to restore his eyesight?

But, no, those are entirely unlikely scenarios. Much  _ more _ likely is the idea that Roy’s luck is just  _ this bad. _

Honestly though - he’s fine.  _ He’s fine.  _ He’s the finest man to have ever been… fine. He’s fine.

(If he can handle single-handedly charbroiling a homunculus until she was nothing but ash and the tattered remnants of a thousand souls, he can handle Edward Elric.)

Except.

Well, except for a  _ lot _ of things, but first on Roy’s ever-growing list of  _ Things Edward Does That I Can(not) Handle _ is, apparently, getting  _ wet. _

The team is called out to one of Central’s many inner boroughs sometime in late April for one of their government-mandated repair-missions that Riza refers to as  _ Reparative Maintenance Duties _ and Havoc affectionately calls  _ Community Service.  _ Not even Roy and his team, in all their well-known fame and glory, are exempt from being called out to deal with this blown pipe or that overflowing dam.

(Not that Roy would have it any other way, mind you; seeing his team in the streets is good for the people’s morale. More than that, Roy  _ spearheaded _ the set of revisional bills that moved the military from a corrupt offensive force to one that served its people first.)

This time, Roy’s team was specifically requested. It’s a little odd - usually whoever is on rotation is called out without question, and if some sort of specific expertise is required, it’s specified in the request for external aid. In addition, Roy’s team, while famous, is not one that is usually requested; of the two alchemists on the team, Roy is useless half the time, and others tend to find Edward... _ terrifying.  _

Even so, they were requested for some kind of repair-mission that requires, and Roy is quoting here, “alchemy and a fine touch.” 

(Roy is of the opinion that any team Edward is a part of should not be anywhere near a situation that needs a  _ fine touch.  _ Edward is still  _ infinitely  _ too fond of skulls, gargoyles, and accidentally destructive alchemy for Roy’s - or anyone else’s - comfort, but this is one of those very few things that are completely out of his control.)

So, even though the circumstances are odd, it’s nice to be out of his office. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the air is warm, and there’s - to Roy’s  _ complete bewilderment _ \- water  _ everywhere. _

It’s spraying from basically every surface imaginable over the space of a city block; no piece of ground nor any person is saved from being drenched to the bone within seconds, rendering Roy immediately completely and utterly useless. (He might not need a circle anymore, thanks to the Gate, but on the rare occasion that alchemy deigns to work for him at all, he  _ does _ still need a spark.) 

It takes  _ significantly too long _ for Roy to glean from passers-by that a former State Alchemist trashed this section of the city by attempting outdated alchemy which,  _ predictably,  _ went south at the deconstruction phase. This - for some  _ ungodly _ reason - prompted an irate, grumbling Edward to strip off his coat and walk directly into the overwhelming spray of fire hydrants and water mains in order to reconstruct the decimated buildings from the dust left behind. 

(Literally. Dust. It’s all that’s left. The people were evacuated safely, but the buildings have been reduced to a dust so fine it might as well be ash, an ash that is  _ soaked _ because of the whole  _ water _ situation. Which means it’s  _ not even  _ dust, it’s  _ mud.) _

And Edward just… reconstructs the buildings. Not only does he reconstruct them, he does it almost as quickly as he would have  _ before _ the end of the world. That casual display of overwhelming expertise would have been uncomfortably attractive no matter what, but  _ then _ Edward has the  _ audacity _ to walk back  _ out  _ of the dust and the dew that’s still hanging suspended in the air. 

He’s  _ soaked. _ His thin white dress shirt is stuck to his skin and automail in a way that’s just this side of obscene, and he’s  _ grinning _ as he walks up to Roy, talking a mile a minute. He pushes his liquid-honey-coloured hair out of his face with gloved hands, flesh and metal arms straining the sleeves of his shirt (which, Roy notes with something that feels an awful lot like despair, have been rucked up to sit in the crook of his elbow to show off those extraordinary forearms) as he continues the motion to stretch his arms up behind his head. 

Roy is  _ fucked _ he's  _ so fucked  _ he  _ cannot handle this. _

“Did you see that?! I’ve almost matched my time from before; the trick is to replace the  _ sun _ with the  _ lion,  _ because the Dwarf in the Flask messed with inherent connections, and the symbology is all messed up! Then you need to connect Mars to the hyacinth, and back to the  _ waves  _ -”

Roy counts it as a point in his ever-declining favour that he’s able to direct most of his attention towards Edward’s rapid-fire alchemical equations. The rest of his attention is split:  _ one stray drop of water _ trails from Edward’s hairline past his eye to the corner of his mouth; Riza quietly berates Havoc for his overt distraction over Edward’s frankly impressive,  _ very  _ visible six-pack; Breda, Fuery, and Falman bicker quietly over the merits of Edward’s wet hair versus his shoulder-to-waist-ratio.

Roy counts it as another point in his favour when he is able to herd Edward towards a car, and then adds  _ another  _ point for he way he  _ resolutely _ ignores the way Edward’s pants are sticking to his glorious, glorious ass.

The next item on Roy’s  _ List of Things Edward Does That I Can(not) Handle _ \- because there’s always a  _ next _ when it comes to the Elrics - is the  _ sleeping. _

Roy  _ honestly  _ thought that the over-eating, over-sleeping parts of Edward’s personality had been squared away when the Truth gave Alphonse’s body back. 

Between those who know the whole story, the accepted truth  _ (hah,  _ the accepted  _ Truth) _ is that Edward’s body had been overcompensating for Al’s while he was trapped in the Gate; the eating, the sleeping, the stunted growth, that was all because Edward’s body was doing its own work in addition to functioning as a life-support system for  _ another entire person _ through both puberty and early-to-mid adolescence.

Now that Alphonse is back and safe, Roy's conclusion - like that of any other  _ sane  _ alchemist who is well-versed in the laws of equivalent exchange - would be that Edward no longer needs to spend  _ quite  _ so much time asleep.

(Roy's been to the Gate, he should know better. When it comes down to it, equivalent exchange is as arbitrary as your leg for a soul, your arm for alchemy, your eyes for being unlucky enough to be collateral damage.)

The thing is, Ed still sleeps  _ all the time. _ He sleeps standing, he sleeps sitting, he sleeps while laying on anything that allows him to be even  _ vaguely  _ horizontal. One particularly memorable time, Roy returned to his office (after eleven  _ agonizing  _ hours trapped in a windowless boardroom with seven prominent military officials) to find Edward curled up beneath his desk, clutching a stack of alchemical notes like a teddy-bear, and muttering about cheese. 

Roy has been informed by multiple people - including Alphonse, Riza, and  _ Madame Christmas,  _ which is a terrifying thought - that it’s completely normal for any slightly-warmer-than-average spot to have Edward Elric curled up and dozing in it. It would be a worrying trait in a bodyguard if Roy hadn’t experienced firsthand Edward’s ability to wake up, neutralize a threat,  _ yawn,  _ then curl up in exactly the same spot he had just vacated and immediately fall back asleep.

He’s like a cat, in Roy's entirely uninformed opinion. A large, golden, particularly  _ venomous _ cat that likes to crawl in peoples’ laps, then hiss and scream when anyone so much as thinks about petting him. 

(Roy does not have much experience with cats.)

You see, the main instigator of the sleeping problem is  _ the couch. _

The big, beautiful, brown leather couch that Edward stole from the tailor (whom Roy has  _ still _ not properly thanked) and dragged into Roy’s office, choosing to shove his perfectly serviceable desk into a corner so that he could optimize the couch's sunlight exposure and bask in the warmth whenever he pleased. 

(He actually used those words. He paused while dragging this comically large leather couch into the room and said, “Oh fuck off with the sour face, Bastard, if I’m going to be your ‘bodyguard’ I’m going to be doing it from this damn couch, so I can bask in the warm fuckin’ sunlight whenever I damn well please.”)

So, Roy is suffering. Roy is suffering, and Havoc is suffering, and Breda and Falman and Fuery and Riza are  _ all _ suffering, because Edward is currently sprawled out on the couch in a way that is entirely tantalizing and deeply unfair.

From the door, Havoc whines, quietly but with feeling,  _ “Fuck off.” _

“Hmm? Is there something wrong?” Roy asks from where he is seated safely behind his desk, which just so happens to have a perfect vantage point of both his staff’s faces and Edward’s sleeping body.

Fuery pokes his head in the door just past Havoc, and groans in disgust. Breda has already crossed his arms and is shaking his head at Roy, like  _ Roy _ has personally offended him, rather than Edward.

“Haven’t we been good to you, General?” Havoc asks, looking like he is genuinely pained. “Haven’t we helped you through the hardest times of your life? You were temporarily blind - I gave up my  _ legs _ for you. And this is how you repay us?”

Roy, for the first time in many,  _ many _ weeks, drops his nonchalant facade and gives his staff a desperate look. “I don’t think he knows he’s doing it,” he reasons.

He feels rather than sees Riza’s disappointed look. She thinks that just because  _ she’s _ got the self control of a  _ monk,  _ the rest of them should too. 

(She’s not wrong, but her disdain makes Roy feel  _ quite _ bad about himself. Not as bad as it makes the rest of his staff feel, but close enough. Roy used to be dignified, and now he's… well, he's almost as bad as Havoc, which is wholly depressing.)

Fuery’s disappointment is a close second to Riza's, though, even if it stems from a different source. “He has to know. There’s no way he doesn’t know. The water? The  _ gun?  _ You can’t explain away the gun. He  _ fondled _ it, General, like a - well. You know. You were there.”

“While you are all well aware that there is nothing I would like to discuss  _ less _ than Edward’s sexual prowess, I have been informed by a reliable yet anonymous source -” Winry, it's always Winry, she knows far too much about the Elric brothers for anyone’s comfort “- that Edward's hands-on experience is rather limited. It’s more than likely that he’s simply unaware of how... unreasonably attractive he is,” Roy reasons, dragging a hand through his hair as he does so, as if the friction will somehow make him forget that these words are actually coming out of his mouth. 

Of all the things he never wanted to talk about with his team, Edward Elric's sexual history is something he never even knew he needed to put on the list.

“But…  _ Boss,”  _ Havoc whines, gesturing emphatically at Edward.

And, you know, the truly sad thing is, he has a point. 

Edward is sprawled on the couch in a way that on anyone else would be ungainly. On him it just looks artful, borderline  _ posed, _ as if someone has carefully set him  _ just so _ in order to capture his likeness on paper, or maybe with oils. He has one arm thrown up over his head, exposing a golden strip of flesh where his untucked shirt has been rucked up slightly, an his face turned towards the fading afternoon light. His hair -  _ his hair _ \- is loose and fanned across the pillow he brought from home for expressly this purpose. Roy could count each and every one of Edward’s eyelashes from this angle, if he wanted to, if he weren’t so distracted by the part of Edward’s lips and the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps, peacefully unaware of the uncomfortable sexual tension filling the room.

As Roy watches, Edward smacks his lips and says,  _ very _ clearly, “The  _ cheese,  _ Al,” before stretching and falling directly back into an undisturbable sleep. The stretch - a full-body endeavor that included back-arching and a rather indecent groaning sound - made everyone  _ tsk _ in outrage, even as they were unable to tear their eyes away.

“I hate to say this - because it sounds awful, and I'm going to insist that you reprimand me for even thinking it - but he’s a damn  _ tease,  _ sir,” Breda declares before herding the rest of the staff out of Roy’s office, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Roy knows. He  _ knows, _ and he is aware, and even though it’s not fair and it’s not Edward’s fault because he’s not even doing anything wrong he’s just  _ existing,  _ Roy is going to need to sit down and talk to him, and ask him to please be less sexy, at least some of the time. For the good of the country.

And Edward’s going to punch him in the face, because even  _ that _ sounds like a sexual harassment infraction. Because it is.

Thirty minutes into Roy’s self-deprecating wallowing session, Edward wakes with another full-body stretch.

“Oh, Mustang, you’re still here. Did I miss anything? What time is it?” Edward asks, eyes still fuzzy from sleep, mouth caught on a smile from whatever happy dream he has only barely left.

“It’s an hour until Colonel Hawkeye unlocks the shackles that keep me attached to my desk,” Roy murmurs in as dry a tone as he can muster. He is willfully, manfully suppressing the part of himself that is infinitely glad that this Edward - the Edward who is soft and happy from sleep, who smiles sweetly and refuses to open his eyes all the way - is one that he hasn’t yet had to share with the rest of his staff.

“Cool, no one’s tried to murder you yet today. That means I can go back to sleep,” Ed mumbles. And then he just… does. He aims one last dazzling smile at Roy, rolls fully onto his side, tucks his flesh hand underneath his pillow, and his breathing drops into a slow, steady rhythm.

“No one but you,” Roy mutters, then flips open the next file on his desk. He’s gotten quite good at ignoring dazzling people in favour of paperwork in recent days. He’s had to, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me at rewmariewrites.tumblr.com!  
> check in there for #progresscheck and #newwork updates  
> also, feel free to send me prompts and stuff!


	4. Baby, Baby, Baby, Oh!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you quite alright, Colonel?” Roy asks, genuinely concerned.
> 
> “Baby,” Riza insists, eyes still locked on the middle distance.
> 
> Wrinkling his nose at her, Roy tries to find the source of her distress, and almost immediately chokes on his tongue. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are amazing, and I love you all. so much. you're all so sweet. thank you for your sweet feedback, and your kind words <3  
> The song Edward sings is A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes from Cinderella (I really like the newer Lily James version - if any of you find a version that sounds like it could be Ed, send me a link!! let me know!!)

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby. A baby.” Riza announces in a stiff, high-pitched monotone, eyes locked on something in the middle-distance.

Roy bids goodbye to the older woman who was _positive_ she knew how the government should _really_ work _(just give it a try, dear, when you get to my age you tend to just know these things)_ before staring at Riza incredulously.

“Are you quite alright, Colonel?” Roy asks, genuinely concerned.

 _“Baby.”_ Riza insists, eyes still locked on the middle distance.

Wrinkling his nose at her, Roy tries to find the source of her distress, and almost immediately chokes on his tongue. _Again._

What is it with Edward Elric and making Roy’s tongue malfunction to such a degree that, instead of staying in its evolutionarily-ordained place within his mouth, it attempts to turn tail and flee down his esophagus?

“Well, you’re very small,” Ed is earnestly telling the _literal infant_ he has cradled in his arms, “Small but doughy. Chubby, even. Evolution engineered you to store more fat than you need, that’s my guess. Babies like you should really always be chubby, ‘cause your body has to store nutrients in your fat to sustain you while you sleep, ‘cause sleeping is how you grow. I don’t know much about babies, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it works. We should ask my brother, he’s much smarter than me.”

The baby responds by smacking Edward in the face with a gentle yet enthusiastic open hand, which prompts Edward to grin and try to catch her tiny, pudgy hand in his mouth, which _murders Roy instantly._

There’s no one lurking anywhere in sight, no one that could even remotely be categorized as this infant's guardian, and Edward is pacing and bouncing this child like he knows what to do but doesn’t know where to go. The baby babbles happily, one hand firmly grasping the collar of that red jacket, the other reaching up past where she’s just smacked Edward’s face to grab a stray lock of that long golden hair and _tug._

Edward just smiles at the child like it hung the moon in the sky and rearranged the stars to match.

“You have to be joking. This can’t be real,” Roy hears himself say, as if from a distance.

“If you need to leave…” Riza trails off, but her meaning is clear.

“I don’t think I _can,”_ Roy says, and it’s as close to outright wailing as he’s ever come.

“I know. Me neither,” is Riza’s response, and though they’ve been best friends for over a decade, Roy doesn’t think he’s ever felt as emotionally akin to her as he does in this moment.

Edward chooses that exact second to notice them, and his face lights up with a relieved grin as he beelines towards them.

“Guys, thank _alchemy_ you’re here. Not that I was specifically looking for you or anything, because I barely have any idea of where I am, but I was seriously fuckin’ panicking. Wait, can I swear around the kid? It’s probably too young to remember. What would Al do? Al wouldn’t swear. He wouldn’t swear anyways, but he _definitely_ wouldn’t swear around the baby, which means I shouldn’t swear around the baby either, fuck. Shit! This is harder than I thought.”

Edward looks so genuinely distressed that Roy has to mask his laugh as a cough, and it’s only because of Riza’s sensible heel suddenly digging into his toes that he’s able to catch his breath at all.

“I found this kid in an alley - an _alley,_ can you _believe_ that?” Ed continues, either completely uncaring or completely unaware of Roy’s pain, “And it’s happy right now, but soon it’s going to be cold and hungry, and I’m not prepared to deal with this. I have contingency plans, _many_ contingency plans, but babies didn’t feature in any of them. I am _not_ supposed to be the one who deals with babies, _Al_ is, but he’s in Resembool because he’s _recovering,_ so now _I_ have to figure out what to do with a kid.”

The baby chooses that moment to give an emphatic _Bah!,_ and Edward _Bah!_ ’s right back.

Riza smacks Roy on the arm, once, _hard,_ never once tearing her eyes away from Edward. Roy has to agree with her. He’s not even really sure what he’s agreeing to, he only knows that he does, and that it’s unfair.

Edward is, as always, oblivious to their strife. “Can we go? You’re both obviously out for your monthly _plotting-world-domination_ dinner, so you have a car nearby, right? The kid is going to get uncomfortable soon, and all you two are doing is standing here looking _bored.”_

(Later, Roy will take it as a testament to their facial control that Edward thought they were _bored_ when faced with _him_ holding a _baby.)_

 _“No one_ is bored,” Riza says, slightly pathetically, and Roy heaves a sigh.

“We can go to my house; it’s bigger, and I have a variety of Elysia’s old things hidden in various closets. It will take some searching, though,” Roy offers.

Edward is already nodding, and making emphatic gestures with his head that universally mean _get a fuckin’ move on._

Roy takes three steps then stops abruptly, a painful sort of panic suddenly coursing through his veins. “We can't… keep it,” he manages after a moment, quite eloquently.

Edward's patented look of disgust and disappointment has never been such a relief, especially when aimed at Roy. “You think I want a child? _Me?_ Bast - _Mustang,_ I have all of what the youths call _‘daddy issues’._ I am in no way fu - _ugh_ \- fudgin’ capable of caring for a child long-term, and I don't want to, not now, not ever. We _do_ need a warm and safe place for it to stay until we can find a nice family for it, though, so lead the way _before I make you.”_ Edward bites out.

That Riza is able to take over and lead Edward and the child towards Roy’s car is probably safer for everyone involved. If Roy had tried, Edward probably would have bitten him, and besides, Roy desperately needed a minute to recover from the way Edward had placed a careful hand over the child's ear when he almost swore, and from the way the child had snuggled into Edward's chest at the contact.

It’s fine though, absolutely fine, because Roy only has to deal with a few more hours of this before ChildCare Services comes to take the child away. Right?

Wrong. So, _so_ wrong.

Edward doesn’t trust the government when it isn’t directly related to Roy, which means he _definitely_ doesn’t allow Roy or Riza to call ChildCare Services. Instead, he calls Al, who presumably calls someone else, who knows someone trusted who wants the child. “It’ll take a few days at most for them to get here,” Al assures them, “Don’t worry.”

 _(Famous last words,_ Roy will think to himself, later, when he’s exiled himself to the backyard in the middle of the night.)

It takes almost three weeks for the approved caretakers to reach Central, which means Edward spends the _entirety_ of those three weeks living in Roy’s home, because he doesn’t trust anyone else with the child and his own apartment is too small for an infant. That’s _three whole weeks_ of finding Edward everywhere and anywhere in Roy’s house. Three whole weeks of domestic mornings and nights, of shared space, of midnight bonding over a fussed infant.

That said, Roy is pretty damn proud that he only had to physically remove himself from his home on three occasions during those three weeks, for fear of Edward-inflicted trauma to his person via sheer emotional overload. There’s a concerning sort of _fluttering_ that’s taken up residence in his chest, one that he is stoically and resolutely refusing to acknowledge.

~

The first time, Roy enters his bedroom after a long day in the office to find Edward on his bed, Roy’s shirt halfway over his head, pillows and legs strategically placed to keep the baby contained. After a moment _(an eternity)_ where some of Edward’s torso is on display in all its toned, muscled glory, his head pops through the collar of Roy’s most comfortable and faded shirt. It’s an old, ratty thing that he’s only kept in his closet out of embarrassing sentimentality; Maes gave it to him on their last day of basic training.

Edward barely even has the decency to look flustered at being caught red-handed.

“Sorry, the baby got her food on all my clothes” he says, which is an admittedly reasonable answer, “And she kept trying to crawl under the bed as I changed, so I figured _on_ the bed was safer.”

But then Edward pushes absently at the stretched-out collar of Roy’s shirt, making it slip to expose the enticing jut of his collarbone, his hand ghosting over the hollow of his throat. The baby clambers up into his lap and Edward picks her up to buss her gently on the nose with his own, and Roy just -

He just takes a very slow breath, then takes another. Then one more, for good luck. He steadfastly ignores Edward’s confused “Mustang?”, and turns around and walks all the way back outside, gets in his car, and drives very slowly back to the office.

~

The second time, Roy is minding his own business. It’s an ungodly hour, sometime in the small hours of the morning, and the ash and smoke of the nightmare he just tore himself from is still clogging his lungs and burning at his fingertips, and - and all Roy wants is a glass of water, so he’s making his way downstairs to find one. Truly, _all he wants_ is a glass of water.

It’s just that when he passes by Edward’s room he hears… something. Something that sounds like _singing._

It’s unusual, because Roy dislikes the crackle of the radio _(bones, snapping and crackling like kindling under intense heat)_ and Roy is fairly sure that Edward has never sung anything in his life - but _there, again,_ a soft crooning comes from Edward’s room.

_“A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you fall asleep,”_

Roy freezes, desperately caught between wanting to go look and wanting to give Edward privacy. He ends up standing stock-still in the middle of the hallway, toes uncomfortably cold against the bare wooden floors.

_“In dreams you will lose your heartaches, whatever you wish for you keep.”_

Quietly, Roy convinces his body to move until he’s lurking at the slightly-open expanse of Edward’s door.

_“Have faith in your dreams and someday, your rainbow will come smiling through.”_

Feeling like he’s intruding but unable to force himself away, he peeks through the crack of the open door. Inside, the dim pre-dawn light illuminates the room just enough for Roy to see Edward leaning over the makeshift crib they’ve fashioned out of Elysia’s old belongings, his automail hand resting gently on the slightly fussing baby’s torso.

_“No matter how your heart is grieving,”_

The baby scrubs at her eyes before reaching up and grasping a lock of Edward’s loose hair in one chubby hand, tugging it halfheartedly. Edward leans forward with the motion and kisses her gently on the forehead.

_“If you keep on believing,”_

Roy takes a step backwards. Then another. Quietly as he can, _quickly_ as he can, he flees downstairs to the kitchen and immediately out the back door to the backyard. He places one hand over his heart - as if that will quell the indescribable, Edward-related ache that re-establishes itself with every beat of his heart - and tries to ignore the last line of the song echoing inside his head in Edward’s soft, surprisingly sweet voice.

_“The dream that you wish will come true.”_

~

The third time, his team follows him home under the pretense of some sort of emergency that involves Roy’s liquor cabinet, Havoc’s latest breakup, and a distinct lack of consent from Roy himself.

Nonetheless, when they all tumble through the house and into the kitchen, they are _not prepared_ for the sight of Edward with the baby.

 _(It is proving to be a concerningly consistent theme of my life,_ Roy thinks, _that I am woefully unprepared for anything Edward chooses to do, ever, in any scenario.)_

The first thing that Roy notices, as ever, is Edward. His hair is piled high on his head in an increasingly familiar messy bun, held tenuously together by nothing but a pencil. Fine, slightly-damp baby-hairs escape at his temples and the nape of his neck, and the sleeves of his shirt _(Roy’s, that’s Roy’s shirt,_ **_again_ ** _)_ are rolled all the way up to the elbow in an attempt to keep them out of the water. The child is, presumably, in the process of being bathed; Edward is supporting the baby’s back with his rubber-glove-encased metal hand, and gently rubbing her down with a washcloth held in his flesh hand.

It’s an absolutely thrilling experience for the baby, apparently, if the way she yells _Bah!_ and throws her arms and legs into the air is any indication.

Edward grins and says _Bah!_ right back, before grabbing her little foot to blow a raspberry right onto the sole, instantly murdering Roy,  _again._ (Someone wheezes, behind him, and Roy reaches back without looking to pat them commiseratingly. He’s pretty sure he just ends up smearing his hand all over someone’s face, but _Edward_ with the _baby_ is _right there,_ so he’s pretty sure whoever he just mauled will understand.) The baby is similarly affected, and shrieks again while using all the power she holds in her tiny little limbs to smack at the water.

“Oh, really kid? That’s how you want to play it? You gotta have a bath, so I gotta have one too?” Edward groans as the baby sloshes water all down his front and to the floor. One-handed, Edward grabs the hem of his _(no, Roy’s!)_ shirt and peels it up and off, throwing it haphazardly behind him. The movement dislodges the pencil in his hair, causing it to clatter to the floor. All that thick, elbow-length hair tumbles free, settling gently down the line of Edward’s back just as he reaches for the button on his wet pants, and -

“No. No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_ -” Roy announces, spinning on his heel and shoving at his Lieutenants until they are all relocated to the front step, petulant and horny.

“Please,” Havoc pleaded, “I’m a sad man. A _wounded_ man. Just let me get in there. Just - I need to get all up in there, for science. I’m a _scientist._ It’s for science. Observation is science.”

“You're not a scientist, you're a driver,” Fuery mutters, glaring forlornly at the door.

“Again, you’re going to have to write me up for this, Boss,” Breda said, muffled from the way he’s hiding his face in his hands, “But didn’t you say you were going to talk to him? About… all of _that?”_

“I did say that,” Roy hedges. He _had_ said that. He just... doesn’t know how to do it without coming across as a massively boorish pervert who allows his staff to leer at unsuspecting bodyguards.

~

It’s honestly a _relief_ when the child’s new parents come.

Well… no, that’s a lie. It’s heartbreaking, really; they arrive and depart in a whirlwind of baby-related advice and paperwork, come and gone within the space of a day, and Roy spends every minute of it thankful that they came on his one day away from the office, because Edward spends the entire day downright _surly._

He mopes, and snaps, and outright _refuses_ to let the baby go until he absolutely has to. The new parents look a little frightened, and honestly, Roy feels it too. Edward has never been this way about anything except his brother, and Nina Tucker, and - oh.

Well, that explains it. Edward has childhood trauma _and_ child-related trauma. He doesn’t want to keep the child, but he doesn’t want to let her go, either. He doesn’t want her to end up a casualty, like him, or Al, or Nina.

Roy wants to comfort Edward, but… he can’t. It’s not that he doesn’t know _what_ to say, it’s just that he doesn’t know _how._ He just… stands at Edward’s left and bites his tongue all day, apologizing when Edward’s grief becomes too abrasive, and trying to smooth the process over as best he can. It works, a bit, maybe. The couple leave with smiles and their new baby in tow, and they all wave jauntily as Roy herds Edward inside, flashing smiles enough for the both of them, and closes the door behind them.

Roy dreads and desperately desires looking at Edward, all at once. He can’t, but… he has to. He can’t physically stop himself from looking. He doesn’t want to see the beauty in the sadness Edward is experiencing, but he can’t make himself leave. So, he looks.

The sunset is filtered through the light curtains of Roy’s foyer, draping Edward in a soft dusting of orange-tinted light. He’s hunched in on himself, braid haphazard and falling out of its tie over his shoulder, arms wound tightly around his torso, gloves _clutching-releasing-clutching_ at the fabric of his _(Roy’s)_ shirt at his sides. He breathes in and out deeply, shakily, and when he gives a rough chuckle Roy’s heart _squeezes_ itself into a ball so tight that he finds he can’t breathe either.

“I know I said I didn’t want to care for a child long-term,” Edward grinds out - feigning anger well, but still _so desperately sad_ \- as he turns his face partially towards Roy. He doesn’t look at Roy, but he turns enough that half of his face is lit up like gold _on fire,_ while the other is entrenched in shadow. “I still don’t want to care for her long-term. I’m not… I’m not cut out for fuckin’ _raising children._ I’m the fuckin’ spittin’ image of Hohenheim, and we all know how _that_ turned out. She was just - she was _safe_ \- I just. Fuck. I didn’t expect it to feel like _this. Fuck.”_

Roy wishes he could say something. _Anything._ But, for what feels like the first time in his life, he is at a loss for words.

Edward turns his face towards the ceiling, breathing deeply. Everything about him is lit up like fire, and in this moment Roy is reminded of the statues in Xerxes; he went, once, when the end of the world turned out to be nothing more than a series of horrible experiences set back-to-back. The sandstone of those statues were polished so highly that even _centuries_ later they lit up like molten gold in the rising and setting sun. Roy always thought it was an exaggeration, a way to revere the highest-valued in their societies, but standing here, like this, while Edward stands _bathed_ in the softened evening light while trying not to cry, he is faced with the unfortunate reality that the Xerxians of old may just have been _that_ beautiful. Or, _this_ beautiful, rather. Edward looks like one of those statues made flesh; the cut of his jaw, the tilt of his chin, the swell of his shoulders and back - it leaves Roy breathless, and not for the first time.

Edward closes his eyes, chin still tipped up, and lets out one last shuddering breath. Roy thinks he sees - _is that -_ a tear drips past Edward’s lashes, but he’s scrubbing his face with both hands before Roy can really be sure.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Mustang,” Edward all but whispers, and makes his way slowly up the stairs.

Roy doesn’t move from his place beside the front door for hours.


	5. Serious as Human Transmutation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (He doesn’t have enough self-control to keep himself from thinking: this isn’t lust, anymore. This isn’t just thinking he’s beautiful. This is so much more.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it. the last chapter. 31 pages in google docs. 13567 words. wow.  
> <3

It doesn’t take long for Edward to recover from the loss of the baby.

... That’s a lie. It  _ looks _ like it doesn’t take long for Edward to recover from losing the baby. Even the next day he’s up and bouncing around, chatting Roy’s ear off about some breakthrough he made in the middle of the night on that cheese-related alchemical formula he and Al work on for laughs. He bounces around the kitchen as Roy makes breakfast, being a terror who is in the way no matter where Roy turns, always trying to sneak ingredients into the pan when Roy’s not looking. The morning light that bounces off his still-damp, lightly-curled hair doesn’t even seem to make up for how  _ annoying _ Ed is that morning, and every morning since. 

Roy has spent the last month and a half getting about as intimate with Ed as one is able to be with another person when those two people are not in a relationship  _ or _ having sex. They cared for a  _ literal infant _ together; Roy may have had to go to work during the day, but during the mornings, evenings, and late nights he was  _ just  _ as involved as Edward in feeding, changing, tantrums, and playtime. He was there for the latest nights and the earliest mornings, and the scant few times that the former turned into the latter.

(There’s one memory from one such morning that Roy will hold onto for the rest of his life. The baby had fussed  _ all night long,  _ long enough that Roy was forced to call in sick for the first time  _ in his life.  _ Riza had  _ laughed at him _ over the line for at least two whole minutes, with his team tittering about in the background. It was humiliating.

Or, it would have been, had Edward not been dozing on his shoulder. They were sitting on the floor slumped against the side of the bed, the room was warm and bright, and the child was  _ finally _ asleep. Edward is slumped against Roy’s left side, his automail arm tucked neatly between them. Edward’s hand twitches against Roy’s thigh as he sleeps, even as he blows warm air against Roy’s neck, and tickles Roy’s collarbone with his hair.

Roy keeps his hands to himself. He has enough self-control to resist rubbing those long locks of gold between his fingertips just to feel their texture. He has enough self control to not lay a hand just under the crook of Edward’s elbow, just to feel the way the mid-morning sun has warmed his automail.

He doesn’t have enough self-control to keep himself from thinking,  _ this isn’t lust, anymore. This isn’t just thinking he’s beautiful. This is so much more.) _

The point is, Edward isn’t really over the loss of the baby  - dubbed Buyo by her new parents, according to the postcards they send every two weeks without fail - and Roy can tell because Edward  _ hasn’t moved out yet. _

Don’t get Roy wrong, he doesn’t  _ want _ Edward to move out, per se. It’s just that - well - Roy has been a bachelor for a very long time. His whole life, in fact, has been an exploration into the intricacies and routines of bachelor-hood. His days spent living with others were blessedly confined to his days in basic training, and his place as a State Alchemist kept him busy enough that he didn’t particularly have time to pursue anyone that wasn’t Riza or Maes.

(Not that either of them were interested in him  _ at all, _ but, well. Roy’s own personal heartbreak is rather beside the point.)

So, having Edward in his house in nice. It’s nice to have someone to wake up with and go home with, someone to interrupt his more self-destructive behaviours. It’s dangerous, though. This _crush_ _(ugh, how undignified is that, he has a crush like a grade-schooler on a playground)_ that has developed is slowly making Roy crazy. He’s brusque with his team, daydreams in meetings, looks forward to _nothing_ more than having Edward hover over his shoulder as he makes dinner, and editing Edward’s newest alchemical paper by the fireside.

(That’s how dire the situation has become. They have a  _ nightly routine.) _

It’s gotten to the point where Roy is utterly and absolutely confounded. Not  _ unhappy,  _ mind you, just confounded. This entire situation is rather reminiscent of the situation that caused this whole mess, when Edward showed up at his work and demanded a job that Roy never thought he would ever want.

Except this time, Edward showed up in his home and demanded… well, nothing. He just showed up and never left.

(Roy attempted to ask Alphonse about it, once, during their weekly telephone call where Alphonse makes vaguely threatening noises and Roy promises to keep an eye on Edward. Alphonse had just laughed until he wheezed, and then called for Winry. At her behest Roy asked again why Edward had moved into his home with seemingly no intention of leaving, and then  _ she _ had laughed until she wheezed.  _ Oh my God,  _ is what she managed to say eventually, and Alphonse had responded,  _ I know, right?  _ and hung up. 

Needless to say, Roy feels out of the loop. He doesn’t like being out of the loop - usually, he  _ is _ the loop.)

It says something about just how distressed Roy is about the entire situation that he is thinking about it in his office, at work, while he is pretending to do his job. Well - to be truthful, he’s been thinking about this for the last four days. Or so. 

(He’s a pathetic excuse for a human being, he is aware,  _ thank you.  _ Riza has been very clear on that.)

Edward is  _ actually _ doing his job, as far as Roy can tell. Well, it’s not like Roy needs much bodyguarding at the moment, so Edward seems to be doing his  _ other  _ job - being the resident alkahestry genius for Central University. From the state of the  alkahestral array sitting on Roy’s desk and the way Edward is eviscerating the end of an innocent pen with his mouth, he’s working hard.

Of course, that’s the exact moment Edward decides to speak.

“Hey, Bastard,” Edward starts,  _ very definitely _ not looking at Roy.

“Mhm?” 

“I’ve been thinking.”

“I hear that’s dangerous for the health.”

“Explains why  _ you _ don’t think all that much,” Edward mutters, and Roy would be wounded, but this is Edward  _ playing,  _ so he laughs instead.

“It truly, truly does,” he says after a moment, still chuckling. “But you think quite a bit, and you’re quite good at it, so why don’t you tell me what exactly you’ve been thinking about?”

Roy watches carefully out of the corner of his eyes as Edward pulls the pen from his mouth and winds it through his hair, much the same as it was when he was bathing the baby in the kitchen sink. The hair seems to be a procrastination technique, which works - Roy will never cease to be amazing at the way Edward always manages to pile his hair securely on top of his head with mundane objects.

When Edward is done fiddling with his hair he glances quickly at Roy before sighing, and twisting his fingers together roughly.

“I think the team has a problem with me,” he finally announces, the words bursting out of him as if he had to force them out of his mouth. His shoulders are slightly hunched and he’s picking at the joint of his metal forefinger, refusing to look Roy in the eye.

Roy is, honestly, a little taken aback. “What?”

Ed scowls. “You heard me, Bastard. I think they’re… I don’t think they like me anymore, or somethin’. Or maybe they think I’m compromised or somethin’, ‘cause of Buyo? It’s just - they follow me around, but then they fuckin’ scatter whenever I try to talk to them. It’s like they don’t  _ trust _ me anymore. Well, maybe Hawkeye still does, but even she gets a little squirrely sometimes and I don’t know why.”

“No, no, they trust you. They think the  _ world _ of you.” Roy scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly tired. “I’m afraid this may be partially my fault,” he murmurs. 

“So  _ you _ don’t trust me,” is Edward’s flat response, and Roy looks up just in time to see the defeated look in Edward’s eyes.

(Roy’s heart breaks then, for the first or the thousandth time, and it’s not his fault that he would  _ burn this entire world to the ground _ just to never see that look cross Edward’s face again.)

_ “No, _ I trust you. I trust you implicitly. I trust you with my life. I trust you with my  _ secrets,”  _ Roy declares, adamant, ignoring the way Edward jerks a little in surprise. “It’s not about - everyone trusts you Edward, I  _ promise. _ I had to tell them to stay away from you for a while, that’s all.”

“You told them to stay away from me.” Edward’s voice is still flat, but his eyes are starting to get a little bit of that fire back, so Roy figures he’s safe for now.

Well, relatively safe. Roy is fairly certain that the rest of this conversation is going to get him punched one way or another, with the  _ metal hand,  _ but getting punched in the face is infinitely more desirable than any situation that includes Edward looking like someone  _ (Roy)  _ just fundamentally betrayed him.

But he doesn’t say that aloud. What he  _ does _ say, is: “Yes, I told them to stay away. For  _ everyone’s  _ sake, but especially yours. It’s - how do I say this without sounding like a  _ perverted buffoon _ -”

“You’re a  _ tease,”  _ Havoc announces from where’s he’s  _ suddenly appeared _ at Roy’s slightly open office door. 

_ “Havoc,” _ Roy threatens, fingers twitching and itching to make a spark, and Havoc zooms immediately backwards, one hand up in placation or surrender as the other propels him towards safety.

“Sorry, Boss, we’ll let you do it!” Havoc yells a moment later, from presumably a much safer distance.

“I’m a  _ tease?” _ Edward repeats, looking at Roy with that little furrow in his brow that says he’s confused in a way that angers him.

Roy lets his face fall into his hands. This is no time for dignity. “I would have phrased it quite differently,” he murmurs, “but that is the gist of it, yes.”

“I don’t understand,” Edward growls, and yes, he’s  _ definitely  _ angry about it.

“You are… sinfully attractive, and everything you do seems to amplify it. The uniform, for example,” Roy sighs, resigning himself to his creepy, perverted fate, “and the sleeping, and the hair, and you’re constantly getting wet, and the gun - the _gun,_ Edward -”

“And the baby. Please don’t forget the baby,” Hawkeye adds from her place in the corner of the office, where  _ Roy had forgotten she was standing. _

“The baby too. The baby was… the baby was a big part of it,” Roy agreed, before glaring Hawkeye out of the room.

She leaves, but not before twitching her lips in a way that lets Roy know she has his number and isn’t afraid to use it.

“How is this  _ my _ fault? I’m just existing!” Edward asks, rightfully defensive, and Roy is gesturing placatingly before Edward can even finish his sentence.

“No! No, it’s not your fault at all. My team is a congregation of  _ deviants _ who are being _ sent up to Briggs for basic sensitivity training -”  _ Roy raises his voice to be sure his team hears him, and is viciously vindicated when he hears them groan, “- and this is in  _ no way  _ your fault because you, as you say, are just existing. I just need them to stay away from you for a week or so, until they leave for Briggs. Honestly, I’m afraid one of them will snap and beg for your hand in marriage, and at the moment I can’t handle the stress that that amount of paperwork will cause.”

“You’re not going with them to Briggs?” Edward’s brow is still furrowed cutely  _ (cutely! Control yourself, Mustang, you are a General and a war veteran, and this is a sensitive conversation!),  _ and Roy is so distracted by that furrow that he answers without even thinking.

“No, I can control myself. They, on the other hand, have proved they are  _ incapable  _ of being decent human beings -”

“Wait, you can  _ control yourself?” _ Edward’s eyebrows have flown up near his hairline, and Roy does an impressive impression of a flounder as he realizes his mistake.

“Well, I - that is, I -” he manages, eloquently,

“You can control yourself. You can _control_ yourself, which means you also think I’m a-” Edward hesitates, swallows, and Roy’s eyes _do_ _not_ linger on the way his throat bobs, “-a tease? You’re _also_ attracted to me?”

(“We need to leave, now,” Roy hears Hawkeye demand on the other side of his still-open office door. There are whining and shuffling noises as she herds the team towards the exit, and she shuts Roy’s office door firmly as she escorts everyone away.)

_ “I  _ am not the one to be concerned about,” Roy deflects, praying to anything that will listen that Edward takes the bait, “It’s the others. They spend too much time together, which has created a large overlap in their taste in partners, which means they have all become captivated -  _ starstruck, _ if you will - by you. They  _ will _ be better once they come back from  _ intensive  _ sensitivity training at Briggs under General Armstrong, or  _ so help me-” _

“Their  _ tastes _ overlap,” Edward interrupts, and Roy curses internally. He should have known better - praying never works. 

“Yes,” Roy agrees, feeling like he’s been sent to defuse a particularly risky bomb.

“Because they spend so much time together,” Edward clarifies, and Roy just nods. Green wire or blue wire? At this stage, does it even matter?

“But you spend the most time with them, ‘cause you’re their boss. If anything,  _ your _ position of authority influenced  _ their _ tastes,” Edward murmurs, pressing his hands flat on Roy’s desk before scratching idly with his metal fingertips at the wooden top, eyes darting about as he thinks. “But I know you used to carry a big ol’ torch for Hawkeye, and I don’t look anything like her -  _ oh,”  _

Edward inhales sharply, eyes lifting suddenly to stare straight into Roy’s soul. 

“I  _ do.  _ I look like Hawkeye. You’re attracted to me.”

“Um,” Roy sits back in his chair using slow, controlled movements. He’s thinking of literally fleeing the building, but most of his higher functions have been replaced with white noise, so he can’t quite figure out  _ how _ to go about fleeing.

“That’s why you kept leaving when I had the baby at your house,” Edward says, scrambling over Roy’s desk, scattering papers and pages everywhere on his mad quest to land haphazardly in Roy’s lap. His hair is coming loose from its precarious bun, again, and it takes everything Roy has to put his hands in the air and  _ keep them there. _

“What are you doing,” Roy asks, deadpan, as Edward straddles Roy in his chair.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Edward asks back, staring directly into Roy’s eyes as he reaches up and pulls at his hair until all of it is cascading everywhere. A lock of it drifts across Roy’s face, and his hand twitches with the effort it takes to not reach out and touch.

“If you’re not serious,” Roy manages, voice coming out only barely strangled, “if you’re not serious, it’s not funny.”

“I’m as serious as human transmutation,” Edward retorts, resting his hands gently against Roy’s chest, and Roy lets out a strangled noise that was supposed to be a laugh.

“I can’t do this halfway. I  _ won’t _ do this halfway - if you’re proposing we do this, I need you to know that I am already entirely too in love with you to be casual,” Roy says, and he desperately hopes Edward understands what Roy is actually trying to say, because he won’t be able to resist touching him for much longer.

And then Edward shrugs with one shoulder, smiles that dazzling smile, and says, “I’ve been halfway in love with you since I was fourteen, so I’m pretty sure I know what I’m doing.”

Roy stares for a moment, and lets out a shaky breath. 

That answer was… honestly unprecedented.

Slowly -  _ so slowly  _ \- he lowers his hands and tangles one in the hair at the back of Edward’s neck, and sets the other on Edward’s lower back. 

Edward’s eyes never leave Roy’s. 

They’ve barely touched but they’re both breathing hard, and Edward is flushed high up on his cheeks.

Somehow, without noticing, Roy has moved until he’s scant inches away from Edward. and he licks his lips before he can help himself. Edward’s eyes flick down to follow the motion, then flick back up.

“Last chance,” Roy offers. If Edward changes his mind, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Edward just smiles again, devious. “I moved into your damn house, and I’m not planning on moving out. I’d say that’s as much of a fuckin’ declaration as you’re gonna get from me.”

“Good enough,” Roy growls, and crashes their lips together. He can feel the smile lingering on Edward’s lips, but he’s more concerned with exploring every inch of Edward’s mouth with his tongue. Edward, to his credit, gives as good as he gets, and every soft graze of teeth over Roy’s bottom lip unravels him just a little bit more.

By the time they break apart - minutes or hours later, Roy can’t really be sure - Edward is making little wanton noises in the back of his throat, and Roy has to duck down to rest his forehead against the hollow of Edward's throat as he breathes  _ very _ carefully.

“We’re at work,” Roy finally says, voice rough, looking up at Edward.

As always, it’s like looking into the sun.

Roy might feel wrecked, but Edward  _ looks _ it; Edward’s shirt is crumpled at the collar, his hair is a tousled mess, his lips are swollen, and his face is scandalously flushed. Most importantly, he’s looking at Roy with those wide amber eyes  _ (every eyelash, Roy can count every eyelash) _ like he can’t quite believe that this is actually happening. It’s an entirely too-familiar feeling, for Roy.

There’s a hickey forming just under where Edward’s shirt will cover, and Roy can’t quite resist pressing a thumb into the mark.

“Stopping just when things were getting good - who’s the tease now, huh?” Edward mocks, still a little breathless, and Roy is helpless to do anything but rest his head against Edward’s chest and laugh.

~

Three months later Edward and Roy are laying low in Havoc's apartment while the rest of the team chases down a particularly stubborn assassin. Edward is poking through Havoc’s drawers because he’s a  _ busy-body  _ who can’t physically help himself, when he finds the envelope.

“Holy shit,” Edward says, which is what alerts Roy to his snooping in the first place.

“Edward,  _ please _ refrain from invading the privacy of my subordinates -” Roy starts, but Edward interrupts.

“Uh, yeah, he wanted me to do  _ way _ more than that. He was going to get me the Fuhrer’s  _ car. The Fuhrer’s car.  _ I don’t even  _ drive,  _ but that thing has  _ gold-plated rims.  _ It’s  _ one of a kind.” _

Roy attempts to snatch the letter from Edward, but Edward just laughs and dances away. “Sorry Bastard, I think this is it! I’ve gotta go tell Havoc he can get me that car -”

“I’ll show  _ you _ a car -” Roy growls, chasing Edward around the room.

“Oh, good comeback!” Edward laughs, before he’s looking at the letter again, gasping and exclaiming, “Mustang, Havoc has  _ permanent auditing rights _ at Central University! That’s it, it’s over, Havoc is my new sugar daddy -”

“You don’t even know what a sugar daddy  _ is,”  _ Roy says, exasperated, as he finally catches up to Edward and hefts him over his shoulder. 

(He’s heavier than he looks, with that extra fifty pounds of automail. Roy’s back will never be the same. It’s so worth it.)

But Edward is giggling and squirming as Roy marches them down the hallway towards the bedrooms. “You just can’t compete,” he manages through his laughter.

“I’ll show you how I  _ compete,”  _ Roy says as he drops Edward onto Havoc’s spare bed.

Edward would usually answer with something witty and cutting, but Roy keeps his mouth fairly busy - first with laughing, then sighing, then moaning.

It’s a good way to win arguments, all told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, uh, this is it. this is the last chapter.  
> thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on this work - it has been a wonderfully fun labour of love and I'm so glad you all enjoyed it.  
> like I said, I've read every comment over and over again, and I can't believe your enthusiastic responses. you're all wonderful, and I appreciate you so so much.
> 
> thanks for everything! consider reading my other works - none of the WIPS are abandoned, some of them I'm just stuck on.  
> <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at rewmariewrites.tumblr.com!  
> updates will be once a week, on Thursdays, until the fic is done!   
> all chapters have been written already (except epilogue) so it should be consistent


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